


Imprint on His Soul

by QueenMab81



Category: due South
Genre: M/M, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 14:35:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4225575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenMab81/pseuds/QueenMab81
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At night though... At night, Ray lays on his bed, stripped of every barrier—physical, mental and emotional—and remembers the press of Fraser's hand on his back, the curve of his fingers along each rib, forever ingrained, <i>imprinted</i>, in Ray's skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imprint on His Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Отпечаток на его душе](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12017667) by [Luna44](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna44/pseuds/Luna44)



For the first week after their adventure on the Henry Allen, Ray spends his days pretending like things are better, different in a good way. That that weird awkwardness that strained their relationship and almost drove them apart is a fading memory. At night though...

At night, Ray lays on his bed, stripped of every barrier—physical, mental and emotional—and remembers the press of Fraser's hand on his back, the curve of his fingers along each rib, forever ingrained, _imprinted_ , in Ray's skin. He slides his hand down his belly and recalls Fraser's frantic grip on his face as air was pushed from Fraser's lungs to Ray's. Wraps his hand around his cock and shivers at the phantom sweep of Fraser's thumb as he grabs at the back of Ray's pants. Just a glance of ragged nail over the slit of his cock has Ray bucking, and he can feel it, the flex of Fraser's fingers as they slide up, up, up over the stretch of bare skin along Ray's ribs, holding him tight, taking him to safety... and _that_ is the memory that tells Ray just how far gone he is.

“Please,” Ray whispers. 

The dark of the room swallows up the plea, makes invisible the vulnerability twisting him up inside. He closes eyes and he strokes himself twice before sliding his fingers back further, pressing tentatively into himself. Right here, right now, all that exists is the desire flowing through his veins, all that matters is the burning stretch of his body opening up and the image of Fraser in his head.

It doesn't take long, not when Ray is curled in on himself with three fingers pushed in deep, straining to find that _one spot_ guaranteed to make him come. He's practically sobbing when he does, but the euphoria is short-lived in the face of the heartbreaking reality that is his life.

***.*.*.***

It takes every ounce of Ray's self-control not to shove Fraser out of the kitchen and towards the front door. He's desperate, after a long day of _FraserFraserFraser_. Fraser's shoulder brushing against his, Fraser's hand at the small of his back, ushering him forward, Fraser's smile, just inches from Ray's mouth as they turn toward each other while standing too close. He needs to be alone so he can get Fraser out of his goddamn head. He needs—

“ _Ray_.” 

Fraser snaps his fingers, breaking through Ray's inner rant, his face a mask of sincere Canadian concern—there's no humor in his eyes, no hint of sarcasm, just worry and something else Ray doesn't recognize.

Ray blinks, steps back to put some distance between them. “Sorry, what?”

“I asked if you were all right. You went very—” Fraser waves his hand, fingers moving rapidly, “all of a sudden. I was—”

“Concerned. Yeah, I got that part.” Ray shakes his head, then notices the pink staining the tips of Fraser's ears, and oh. _Oh_. “Fuck.”

If ever there was a time for the ground to open up and swallow him whole, now is it. Ray wants to die, wants to just lay down and bury his head in the metaphy—meto—whatever the goddamn word is. He wants to put his head in the sand that isn't actually there because Jesus Christ, he wasn't just internally ranting.

“I apologize if my nearness has caused you discomfort. I myself have never been one for falling into such close proximity with others, and in my defense, you were the first to breach the metaphorical—”

That's the word, Ray thinks.

“—barrier as you are quite tactile. I was simply taking my cues from you, as I have noticed, over the course of our partnership, that you respond more positively when touch is incorporated into our interactions.”

None of that makes sense, and Ray isn't shy about saying so. “Huh?”

Fraser reaches up, rubs his thumb over his brow, then clasps his hands together in front of him, knuckles white as he grips his hat. “What I mean to say is that, from my observation, you like to be touched, and that, when touched, you become more agreeable.”

And that right there? Is a goddamn lie. Ray is prickly as hell, no matter what. Except. Except that even when he's being prickly, Ray is more aware of Fraser, his senses overwhelmed and on fire and all he can think is _yesyesyes_ and _anything you want, just please don't stop touching me_ , so maybe the liar is him.

“I don't—I'm sorry. I wasn't—It's not—I wasn't doing it on purpose.”

Fraser watches him, brows drawn together and down, his eyes taking in every detail, reading past Ray's expression to his very soul. It's unnerving, and he can't hold the gaze, has to look away.

“I'm not angry, Ray. In fact, I quite enjoy our closeness. As you know, my mother died when I was very young, and my grandparents, wonderful as they were, were not as forthcoming with affection as perhaps a young child needs.”

Understatement of the goddamn year.

“The thing is,” Ray says, interrupting whatever else Fraser has to say, “I'm really not that touchy-feely. Not—not with just anyone.” He doesn't say, _just you, Stella and maybe sometimes my parents_ , but he silently wills Fraser to understand. He's a Mountie. It's possible he was trained in telepathy for exactly this reason. Or, well, not this exactly, but something like it.

“Ah.” Fraser softens the blow of that single word by taking another step closer, crowding Ray back against the counter. “So then I take it, you are not upset that I like to touch you.” 

He speaks in this low, husky voice; sex and chocolate and brandy wrapped in coy, Canadian fondness that does odd things to Ray's stomach. His mouth is scant inches from Ray's, the blue of his eyes half-hidden by the dark sweep of his lashes. Ray can feel the heat of his body, taste the spearmint sweetness of his breath, smell the musk of well-worn wool, and his body reacts in kind. He's half-hard in his jeans and his heart is beating out of control.

“No. No, not—” Not as such, Ray doesn't say, because that's Fraser's line. “Definitely not upset, Fraser.” 

Ray sucks in a sharp breath and is just praying for the courage to close the gap when Fraser does it for him. His mouth is warm and soft against Ray's, undemanding, but not passive either. He knows Ray won't pull away, but understands that it might take him a few seconds to get with the picture. Fraser is patient like that, but only until Ray sighs and opens his mouth. Then it's pure need driving Fraser to be rough in a way he never is. The ungentle bite as Fraser sinks his teeth into Ray's lip—a hurt Ray desperately needed—is soothed seconds later by the gentle sweep of his tongue.

All of Ray's resistance falls away. He pushes in close, hands fisted in the back of Fraser's shirt, glad there's no serge standing between them. He moans a little, ashamed at his own neediness, and is gratified when Fraser responds in kind. 

Fraser breaks the kiss, eyes dark, pupils blown wide, and asks, “What do you want?”

“Your hand,” Ray chokes out. When Fraser reaches for the button of his jeans, Ray shakes his head. “No. Here.” 

He guides Fraser's hand under his shirt, to that patch of skin that still carries the invisible imprint from last time. It's not quite right, the angle off, and Ray scrambles to get it the way it was, the way it needs to be. Fraser looks confused for a long moment, then understanding washes over his features and he spins Ray around, pushes him forward into the counter. 

“Like this?” he asks. His hand finds the spot and Ray melts into the touch, undone. 

“Yeah. Yeah, like that,” he croaks. 

Ray braces himself against the counter, damp palms unable to find traction. He gasps as Fraser digs his fingers in, turns the grip bruising; Ray can feel the imprint of Fraser’s hand sinking through his skin straight to his soul. Even better, though, is that this will leave a mark, something visible— _tangible_ —for Ray to poke and prod later. It's not enough, though, and he says so. Says,

“ _Please_.”

And wants to sob with relief when Fraser uses his other hand to open Ray's jeans and shove them down past his hips. Ray rocks back and groans at the feel of Fraser hot and hard, pushing into the curve of Ray's ass and separated by too many layers. His boxer briefs follow the way of his pants, pooling at his ankles. Fraser leans into him heavily, opens up the cabinet to pull out the small bottle of olive oil, and spills it all over the counter in the process of coating his fingers.

Ray's breath leaves him in wheeze as two large, blunt fingers push into him. Fraser is biting kisses up his neck while working him open, and a small part of Ray wonders if he's not maybe sleeping right now. If this isn't some dream and he's going to wake up any second now, hard and alone and—

“I'm right here, Ray,” Fraser says, a bare whisper. “We're standing in your kitchen, you are wide awake and as soon as I undo my trousers, I—I am going to fuck you.”

That's all it takes to send Ray spiraling over the edge, his cock jerking as he comes against the shitty wood cabinet door. Behind him, Fraser curses again, withdraws his fingers to pry open his jeans and push them down. Then he's pressing in, too soon and too fast but just right, splitting Ray open even as his body shakes with the aftershocks of his orgasm. Ray gives up holding himself upright and goes flat, his cheek pressed against the cool countertop. Fraser is working himself in deep with small shifts of his hips, the hand on Ray's side never straying.

“Oh. Oh, _Ray_.”

Fraser sounds so goddamn turned on, and his voice cracks just a little as he says Ray's name. Ray swallows, breath stuttering out of him and Fraser pulls almost all the way out and then slams back in. His lips are moving, and though all he can hear is the beat of his heart, he knows the shape of Fraser's name on his tongue, the way it curves his lips, and can only assume he's got a steady mantra going.

“Yes. Yes, Ray, oh god. I can't—please, may I?”

It takes a second for the request to penetrate the haze of pleasure filling Ray's head, and even longer for him to decode it. They're fucking in the middle of his kitchen, using olive oil as lube and no condom. Fraser wants to come. Inside Ray. And that—that is possibly the best idea ever, Ray is certain of this. He nods frantically, clenches his teeth around a desperate sob, and reaches back with one hand to grasp Fraser's thigh and drag him closer.

Three hard, deep thrusts and Fraser goes still, his cock twitching as he finds his release. Ray can feel it, each pulse of Fraser's cock, stretching him just that much wider, reshaping him. He never wants it to end, never wants them to separate, because when they do, when they are, Ray can't think straight.

“Shh.” Fraser kisses the back of Ray's neck, gentle. “This was not the most convenient location for such a coupling, though I hardly think we were in much state as to make a better choice at the time. However, I would like to suggest that, after we clean up, we reconvene in your bedroom.” He stops there, waiting for Ray's response.

“Yeah, clean up and then bed. I can work with that. Not even your tricky Canadian words can trip me up.”

Fraser pulls out slowly, his fingers sliding over and into Ray, testing. Ray's cock gives a half-hearted jerk, but can't do much more than that. It would be embarrassing, but Fraser doesn't tease or say anything. Just pries Ray up off the counter and leads him into the bathroom where they scrub clean in a fast shower and then tumble out and onto the bed. 

Ray sprawls out face down on the bed, too exhausted to do more than grunt as Fraser's fingers find their way back inside him and stay there. It feels a little odd, but it also feels good, like this is the way it's supposed to be, them constantly joined together.

“Ray?” Fraser waits for him to respond, then continues. “Though I believe at such a juncture it is best for some conversation to take place, an official acknowledgement of the budding relationship and—”

“Fraser?”

“Yes, Ray.”

Ray twists so his face isn't quite so smushed in the pillow. “Hey. Hey, Fraser, will you go steady with me?”

There's a long paused followed by a huff of laughter. “Why, Ray, I thought you'd never ask.”  
Fraser shows Ray just how amiable he is ten minutes later, pushing back into him, filling him up. His hand strays to where a faint outline is blooming, a light bruise he plays with, fits his hand to and squeezes. When they eventually fall asleep, he's still pressed deep inside Ray, spent, his claim laid where Ray will feel it for the next week if he's lucky.


End file.
